


A Likely Story

by Annwyn



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Pre-Quest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:56:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annwyn/pseuds/Annwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a duty to discharge and a strange story to relate. Written for the <i>Waymeet</i> Good HouseKeeping Challenge, my prompt was 'razor'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Likely Story

You’re asking me if I believe in them old-gammer’s tales? I suppose you think I wouldn’t, being the well-travelled hobbit that I am, but - you’d be downright wrong.

Truth to tell, when I was a young ‘un, I never did put much stock in them, though Mam and t’ Gaffer used to swear up hill and down hill that they were true. They just looked to me like cautions dressed up in fancy words and half-truths, bogeys meant for scaring tweens and making them mind their elders. I never needed them, you see. I’d always been a biddable lad and early broken to the rein, though parts of me _would_ go their own ways, and there wasn’t nothing I could do.

But there - I’m getting ahead of meself now, and you do want a proper story, don’t you?

You want to know why I changed my mind, and I’ve seen my way to telling you. But I’d take it as a kindness if you’d keep the – uh – _details_ to yourself, seeing as it ain’t my story alone, and being as it’s a mite embarrassing besides. So I’ll tell it my own way, and I’ll thank you to keep mum and spare my blushes. It’s hard enough to do, but I should have told it long ago, and I reckon it’s important that someone else should know.

Are we agreed? Let’s get on with it then, afore I change my mind.

~~~~~

Now I ain’t exactly boasting, but the garden of Bag End was beautiful, and justly famed throughout the Shire. Passers-by often stopped to gawk, but after Mr Bilbo went away, I knew that it wasn’t my roses nor my peonies they’d come all that way to see. It was a sad thing indeed when my dear master couldn’t even sit out on the stoop and enjoy the morning sun, without some impertinent lout pondering the whereabouts of his gold or the price of his weskit (and a pretty lass or two for the last, it must be said, although their interest was more likely on the slender hobbit who wore it) so it behooved a canny gardener to set things to rights.

The bowers were an inspiration – and my downfall, if only I knew - shady nooks well-screened from the roadway by careful plantings and open to his favourite views of the land below the Hill. I tended one of them with special care, pruning the nearby beech so that some dappled shadow lay lightly on the soft grass and covering the bare earth with snowdrifts of honey-scented alyssum and the vibrant blue and gold of hearts-ease. I chose the rosebushes that ringed the space for the gentle fragrance of their creamy blossoms and the comfortable, if rough-hewn bench I cobbled together was just right for resting a body weary from poring over accounts and mouldy manuscripts.

Mr Frodo knew exactly what I was about. You wouldn’t know it from his easy courtesy, but he hated being stared at, for all he’d resigned hisself to being a curiosity. “You know me so well, my Sam,” he said, and why wouldn’t I when he’d been my study ever since I was nobbut a wee lad?

Anyways, as I had hoped, the bower became favourite with him, and it did my heart good to watch his pale skin bloom in the warm sunshine.

It was right by my toolshed, and I could see it perfect, you see.

So it was that one late spring day, the year after Mr Bilbo up and disappeared, I looked out my little window and saw as pretty a sight as I’d ever set my eyes upon.

Mr Frodo lay on the sun-lit grass, his legs a-cross, his collar open to the warm breeze and his furry toes scribing lazy circles in the air. He’d been reading, but his book now lay abandoned on his belly, and all his attention was given over to the green and yellow butterfly that hovered above his parted lips, very like a teasing maid. I still remember everything so clear, ‘cause I thought then that that was what Elvish poetry would look like, if the words came to life on the written page. All colour and magic and graceful beauty – because that’s what he was then and that’s what he'll always be to me.

I watched his face light with a smile, watched as the foolish flitterby, likely realising that the flower it had found was no such thing, flew off in a pother. Then he took up his book again, still with that secret smile a-hovering about his lips, and I stumbled away from the pane, my legs shaking fit t' toss me to the floor and my cock hard as them dibbers hangin' on the wall.

I was in a whole heap o’ trouble.

The love I'd always borne for the tall Brandybuck lad who'd once knelt in the dust of a roadway and asked to be my friend had turned into something different without my knowing. It had such a weight to it now, a gnawing ache that wasn't there before. It scared me right down to the tips of my toes, and I pressed my hand ‘gainst the wild thing in my breeches and it felt wonderful.

But I didn't pleasure myself - not then. I knew it wasn’t proper, lusting after my master the way I did, and me his servant and all. A circumstance that wasn’t likely to ever change, either. But something else did - change, I mean, just a week after that day.

“Sam, I believe it’s past time I raised your hire,” Mr Frodo said, brisk as you please. “I’ve seen Lobelia look at you as if you were a particularly tasty morsel in a shop window, and I wouldn’t want to wake up one morning and find that she’s stolen you right out from under my nose.”

I was fair affronted, I can tell you, and me with my heart all sore still. I wouldn’t leave Mr Frodo if I was offered all Smaug’s golden hoard, and certainly not for that Miz Lobelia with her face sour as a green plum. The very idea! And Mr Frodo, he got all flushed and flustered when I told him so.

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he said, all penitence. “I wouldn’t have made a joke of it, if I’d known you’d take it so hard. But you’re still worth a lot more than I pay you, and you’re getting a raise, whether you want it or not.” And he folded his arms, shut his pretty mouth up tight and stared me down.

It was cruel hard, it was – all this talk of _paying_. It just brought home to me that that was all I could ever be to him, a service bought and paid for. I couldn’t find the words to say my mind, so I shook my head all stubborn-like, and kept my silence, though I knew the Gaffer would have hard words for me if he knew what I was about.

“Blast and damn your pride,” he said at last, when he saw I wasn’t likely to say yea or nay. “Very well, then. If I asked you to give me a hand in the smial as well, would that content you? Would you feel that you were worth your hire?” There had been something odd about t’ look on his face when he spoke, and me too befuddled by my good fortune to pay it any mind.

He had handed me the moon on a silver plate, and I’d be a fool to tell him no.

Ever since I could remember, it had been my dearest wish to do for Mr Frodo, though I knew Mr Bilbo had schooled him well, and he didn’t really need my help, as far as I could see. But he was careless of his comforts too, and plumb forgot his vittles when he got to wrestlin’ with a tricky bit o’ Elvish and I’d noticed that he’d gotten thinner since Mr Bilbo went away. “The lad needs looking after, Sam,” the old master used to say, and I’d always known that I was the hobbit to do it.

It wasn’t long before I found that there were whole other meanings to _doing_ for Mr Frodo than I had ever dreamed of, even after I realised I loved him. Meanings that came to mind when I drew his curtains back to rouse him of a morning, and he like a tight-furled flower of the night, unfolding its creamy petals in the bright sunshine. Oh, what I wanted to do to him, right there and then. Kissing that smooth, sleep-warm skin would be favourite, and making him sigh and gasp and moan my name would be beyond delight.

Then he’d blink up at me and smile, all sleepy-eyed and rumpled. “Good morning, Sam,” he’d say, and I kenneled my thoughts with all the others baying at the back of my mind and tried my level best not to tremble as I handed him his tea.

But at night, them secret thoughts wanted to come out and play, and I’d set them free. I pleasured myself then, in all the ways I knew how, and always, it was his warm hands I felt on me, stroking and loving, and his mouth on mine, all wet with need. When I spent myself, it was his name I whispered into the dark, and his face the last thing I saw before I fell asleep.

It was then that it happened, that thing that made me believe.

I heard t’ Gaffer scolding m’ brother Hal once, back when I was barely a tween. “You’ll get your palms hairy as a randy billy goat, if you go on beatin’ yer poker all night,” he said. I asked Hal about it after, and he laughed and told me what it meant, and said it wasn’t true.

But I woke up one morn with the dregs of my lust dried on my belly, and as I raised my hand to shut out the sun from the window, I found that the Gaffer had been right all along. I couldn’t hardly credit what I saw – tiny golden hairs, fine as gossamer, covering the palm of my upraised hand, growing thicker in the creases and spreading out toward my fingers, and I snatched my other hand out from under the covers and saw it had hair on it too. I was fair mazed, I can tell you – I leapt from me bed with a scream and stumbled blind about the room, my heart thundering like a herd of oliphants and my head pounding fit to burst. Finally I calmed down enough to bethink me of the knife I always carried in my pocket, and I plunged my hands into the water on my washstand and scraped at them till they were red and raw.

I went about in a daze all that day and the days after, stayin’ away from Mr Frodo as best I could, and working until I was so tired out I couldn’t hardly move. It was the only way I knew to keep my hands out of mischief and my thoughts pure as snow. But the hair grew back each night anyways, and I couldn’t understand it. ‘T wasn’t the first time I’d pleasured myself after all; there was once, years before, when a glimpse of Rosie Cotton’s breast or a good strong wind could get me all hard and ready, and I didn’t grow no hair then. So why now, and… why me?

Then it got worse, if that were possible. I was in the parlour one afternoon, dusting the gewgaws Mr Bilbo’d gathered in his travels, and keeping an ear out for my master’s soft footsteps, though where I could run to if I heard him, I’m sure I didn’t know. There was a curious thing Mr Bilbo had brought back from foreign parts that held a special fascination for me now – a ra-zor, he called it, a straight knife blade of queer shape, forged in some silvery metal that held an edge right well. It was hinged to a handle made of bone carved with strange runes, and there was a cunning little spring hid in the hinge that folded the blade back into the handle when you pressed it. Mr Bilbo told me it that the big men used it to shave the hair off their faces, and I was certain sure he was cozening me.

I asked him whence it came, and he got this far-away look and smiled. It was real Dale dwarf-make and a gift from a friend, he said. I thought it a strange thing to give to a beardless hobbit, but that was Mr Bilbo for you, and he delighted in such oddities.

The ra-zor seemed clean enough and I made to pick it up when I heard a sound behind me. Mr Frodo was leaned up in the parlour doorway, his hands deep in his pockets and a broody shadow dark on his fair face.

We stared at each other for a long moment, then he sighed, soft-like. “Samwise,” he said, and I braced meself – for what, I didn’t know. “You’ve been looking peaky lately, lad, and I’m afraid I’ve given you far too much to do. So ease up, won’t you? The place is as shiny as a new penny, the pantries won’t grow legs and walk away, and you have nothing to prove to me that I didn’t already know.”

“But I’m fine, Mr Frodo! It’s a joy to do for you, sir, and it ain’t too much – really it isn’t!” I was so frantic to ease him, my tongue tripped over itself.

He smiled, but I could see the shadow still. “I’m very glad to hear that, and I – it’s a pleasure having you about me too. But I won’t be needing your services in the bedroom any longer…”

I could almost hear his mind screech to a halt, and I ducked my head, afeared of what he might see in my eyes. Then he went on, careful-like, and his voice had an odd hitch to it, “I can get my own tea in the morning, Sam. It won’t do for me to get used to little luxuries, for I would have a hard time of it if ever I had to go away.”

_Go away?_ I jerked my head up at that, but he had gone on down the hall, and the doorway was empty. I stood there like a great lump and my fear that Mr Frodo had found me out was all but swamped by the pain that took my chest at the thought of what my life would be like without him. I was sure that he was thinkin’ to follow Mr Bilbo, and I hid my face in my unclean hands and let the hot tears fall and wondered what would become of me.

I couldn’t sleep that night, which wasn’t to be wondered at, so I took a walk around the Hill to try and clear my head. It was moon-dark and the shadows were deep, which suited me fine, and I could feel the silence, pressing up against me from every side. There weren’t no lamps lit at Bag End either, and I stood staring at his window for the longest time when suddenly I heard a sound. I tried to take myself away, truly I did, but my feet had a mind of their own, and afore I knew it, I had my back to the smial wall, and my ears were burnin’. A soft moan shivered in the warm evening air, and then another, and I shut my eyes as something else began to burn, the heat of it rising and prickling through my body and pooling low in my belly. I heard the creak of bedsprings and a breathy gasp and I could see him behind my eyelids, his head thrown back and his dark hair spread out on the white pillow, the long lovely line of his neck a-shimmer in the dim light. Then the moans came faster, and the gasps harsher, and I could _see_ his hands moving, blurs in the darkness, and I couldn’t help myself no more.

Hairy abomination or not, I had to have ease. My cock was so hard it was like to rip through my breeks and it felt so heavy, it nailed me right down to where I stood. He was wailing now, a steady thread of sound that caught its breath regular-like, and I seemed to _see_ his fist sweep up over the silky crown of his shaft and I rubbed my tingling palms on the wall behind me and trembled.

Somehow my buttons came undone and my cock all but leapt into my hand. I heard him cry out, but I couldn’t hear the words he voiced in his pleasure, because there was a roaring in my ears and a searing sweet blaze whelmed me and the night went red at the edges and flickered out.

When I came back to myself, all was quiet, and I couldn’t believe I hadn’t made a sound. I looked at my hands in the wan moonlight and shuddered. I loved him, and though I had never tasted a like pleasure in all my born days, even I knew that that had been out of the ordinary run of things. Something wasn’t right.

The next days were strange ones. There wasn’t no hair on his palms either, and I did steal a good look even if I couldn’t meet his eyes. We traded an uneasy silence over second breakfast and tea and he didn’t offer to share his work with me like he always used to do. I grieved for the loss of our easy ways and it was in my mind that I’d as lief have him as a friend than a lover, if that’s what it came down to.

Then my brother Hal came to visit from over Tighfield way and he had something he wanted Mr Frodo to see.

“Fer you, sir. It’s summat new we’re tryin’,” Halfred said, his round face shining with honest pride as he held out his burden. “No, Mr Frodo, you don’t hafta hold it – jest take a look now; it’s a mite too heavy for the likes of you.”

I didn’t like that – not one bit. My master wasn’t no weakling, for all the time he spent at his desk, and I was fixin’ to say so. But Mr Frodo gave me a frown that shut me up and lifted the coils of rope from m’ brother’s hands. “Nonsense, Hal,” he said, smiling. “How can I fully appreciate the gift if I can’t handle it properly?”

Wiry muscles bunched under fine linen as he lifted them hanks into the morning sunlight and his brows rose. “Why, look at it, Sam! Do you remember what Bilbo told us about elven rope?”

“It does have a kind of shine,” I allowed. “And a bit o’ grey in the fiber, come to think of it.”

Halfred beamed. He’d always given my liking for Mr Bilbo’s stories short shrift, but having his rope compared to elven work, now - that wasn’t nothing to be sneezed at.

“We done added a bit of heather to the mix, sir. Makes for a smoother twist and easier on the hands too,” he said. “But what’s that elvish rope made of, if I may ask?”

“Hithlain,” my master answered. He was stroking the coils, and his mind seemed to be far away – with the elves, most likely.

“And what’s that when it’s at home?”

“Some sort of reed-like plant, I think.” Mr Frodo held his hands out to me. “You’ll know what to do, Sam. I believe the toolshed will be just the place for it.”

I relieved him of his load, taking good care to avoid the touch o’ those smooth fingers and turned to go, but Hal’s next words stopped me in my tracks.

“Sam looks to be settin’ up well, Mr. Frodo. I hope he’s givin’ satisfaction?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without him, Hal,” my master answered quietly, and my face burned.

Halfred rocked on his heels and laughed, coarse-like. “That’s grand, sir. Sam’ll be thinkin’ to get hitched afore he be of age, I reckon. Always has that pretty Rosie Cotton makin’ eyes at him, he does, and Mari was jest complainin’ bout all them mucky sheets she gets to wash on laundry days.”

I like to have died on the spot, I can tell you. I couldn’t look at Mr Frodo and I got this awful urge to plant my fist in Hal’s grinning face, but I kept my head up and walked away from them with all the dignity I could muster. And afore I turned the curve of the Hill, I heard my master’s voice, so cold that it would’ve frozen m’ brother if it could. “What Sam does on his own time is his business, Halfred. It isn’t yours, and it certainly is none of mine.”

My face was awash with tears by the time I got to put the rope away.

The smial was quiet all the rest o’ the day, and I didn’t see Mr Frodo again till it was bout time for me to go. I made sure his supper was keepin’ warm in t’ oven and was just finishing up the washing when a whisper of sound made me shiver and me hackles rise. He stood just inside the hallway, his face in shadow and his arms wrapped close about him, as if he was feeling a chill.

“I’m sorry about this morning, Sam,” he said, and I had to strain my ears to hear him. “It wasn’t very good of Halfred to embarrass you so.”

“It’s no matter, sir.” I busied myself at setting the table for his supper and dishing it up the best I could. “It’s just Hal’s way. I don’t mind, I really don’t, and besides, you gave him a good set-down, if I heard aright.” I turned my eyes away then, because I remembered what else I’d heard, and the tears were very near indeed.

“Did I?” I could hear the whisper of his footsteps coming closer. “Sam,” he began, and stopped, and I sneaked a peek despite meself. He’d left off his weskit, and his light linen shirt was creased as if he’d had a nap in it. I could see the umber shadow of a nipple through the thin cloth, and I hurriedly fastened my gaze on his face – the memory of that night before still being right clear in my mind, you see. He seemed tired, my master did, his midnight eyes like bruises in his pale face and I could’ve kicked myself for being so full of my own troubles and not caring for his comfort like I should.

“Eat your supper, Mr Frodo, afore it gets cold.”

“I will,” said he, “if you will join me.”

I was in for it now, and I couldn’t very well say no. So I got myself a bite and sat myself down and he nodded and smiled a little at me.

“Do you remember the Bumblefoots, Sam?”

I did, of course. A travelling family of hobbits that went from village to hamlet selling simples and herbs and anything else they crafted or traded for. They were rumoured to even venture outside the Shire at times. The hobbits around Hobbiton didn’t trust them much, though they were quick enough to buy the gaudy ribbons and lacy fribbles that them folk were known for. The wags called them “Itchyfoots” right to their faces, but Mr Bilbo had always made them welcome and allowed them the use of a meadow down by the Bywater Pool, though they hadn’t been by for a year or so.

Mr Frodo tore a hunk from the loaf and buttered it. “They’re back, and they want to meet me. I suppose they’re curious about Bilbo’s heir and wish to know if I will honour the agreements Bilbo made so long ago. I shall go down to Bywater tomorrow.” He paused and met my eyes squarely, “Would you like to come with me?”

Well, it wasn’t hard to make up my mind, was it? I wasn’t about to let him out o’ my sight - not with him fixin’ to leave the Shire and hare off after Mr Bilbo like I thought he wanted to. Though knowing what I do now, I should’ve known that I’d dog his footsteps to the ends of Middle-earth and beyond, whether he would or no. But I wasn’t sure of my welcome then, you see.

Anyways, what with one thing or another, it was midday by the time we got to the meadow, and I could see that word had gotten about. There were a number of hobbits poking around them brightly painted smial-waggons that the Bumblefoots used and some of them were known to me.

The Bumblefoot Gaffer himself came to meet us and make us welcome – an old hobbit with a face like a dried winter apple and an air on him very like the Old Took hisself.

“Sam, I have some business with Mr Bumblefoot and I don’t quite know how long it will take me,” Mr Frodo pressed a silver coin into my hand and I felt a tingle prick my skin. “Here, buy a pretty ribbon for Marigold and get yourself something to eat – I’ll find you when I am done.”

“But Mr Frodo,” I protested. I’d brought my small store of coppers to do the same thing meself and I didn’t want to take no more from him, but the look on his face did fair to shut my mouth.

“Please,” he said. “It’s a beautiful day and I’ve had a lovely walk and I know you wouldn’t want to spoil it for me, would you?”

It came to me then that for all my pride at knowing him so well, he had my measure too. I watched him walk away, the Gaffer at his side, and noted how well he did ‘gainst all the colour that bedecked the tow-headed folk about him. His white lawn shirt and dark russet hair glowed in the sunlight, and his simple broidered weskit and breeches of velvety blue showed off his lissome form and his beautiful eyes to best advantage. His looks set him apart from the common herd, and I could see, from the flirty glances sent in his direction, that the lasses thought so too.

But it wouldn’t do to trail after him like a moon-struck calf, so I took myself off to see what the Bumblefoots had on offer. The little fair was bustling by now - the waggons had let down their sides to display their wares, and I found some ribbon and a bit of lace that would be sure to send Mari into transports of delight, and a tasty pasty that sent my belly into a state of the same. Trading pleasantries with the Bywater hobbits couldn’t fill the passing hours, though, and I soon grew restive.

My master would be pleased with the Bumblefoots’ care, I thought. The outskirts of the camp seemed to be in good order – the middens were set well away from the banks so as not to foul the Water, and the ponies were roped off in a tidy enclosure beside a hawthorn grove. I had a special liking for the shaggy beasts, so I stopped to pet them and as I was doing so, I noticed a waggon, almost hidden in the shadow of the trees. It was the first I’d seen with a chimney poking out of the wooden roof, so I went for a closer look. The waggon was well-kept and painted in red and black and it had a neatly-lettered sign pinned by the door.

MADAM ROSAMUNDA  
Knows All  
Sees All  
Secrets Kept Safe

Well, if that didn’t beat everything to flinders. ‘Sees All’ indeed. My practical self knew that wasn’t possible, but a part of me, the part that believed in elves and oliphants wondered if it were true. As I stood there dithering a voice spoke, it seemed like out of the blue. “Well, Samwise Gamgee, will you be standin’ there gawpin’ all day?”

The voice knew my name! And it sounded like old Mr Gandalf, all impatient and querulous-like, so despite my misgivings, I climbed the steps and opened the door. The inside of the waggon was lit only by a small brazier that stood under the chimney hood and I couldn’t hardly see who sat in the dark shadows behind the tiny table in the midst of it. She could have been a small person of the big folk for all I knew. A gnarled hand thrust out into the light and ordered, “Cross my palm with silver, lad.” I bethought me of the lone silver piece in my pouch, searched it out and gave it over, not without wondering how she’d known the likes of me would have it. The hand closed over the coin, the brazier blazed up and a heady fragrance filled the air.

“Sit you down and give me yer hand,” the voice demanded, and I perched meself on the stool close by and did as I was bid. My shaved paw looked large in her bird-like fingers, and I started as a cackle rent the air. “Aye, I thought so,” she said “And very strong it is, too. I’ve only seen the like of it the once, methinks. A lad, I take it?”

How did she know? What did she see? I felt the heat rise to flood my face, beads of sweat stood out on my brows, and I didn’t bother to say her false. “What is it?” I quavered.

“’Tis a privilege, a great joy and a huge burden, if ye choose to make it so,” she replied, and I could hear the kindness in her voice. “Are ye wanting to live with it, spirit-bound to the one ye love, or do ye wish to make it go away?”

_A great joy?_ I sat silently in the dark of the waggon for a long moment, thinking of the sad constraint between my master and myself, the lonely yearning nights and the certainty that he would never feel the way I did, and it was all I could do to keep from crying my heart out. “Make it go away,” I whispered at last.

“My, my,” she chuckled. “Not even askin’ for a potion to make him turn to you? It’s a remarkable hobbit ye are, to be sure.”

Her words were like a bath of icy water and I snatched my hand back. “No!” I all but shouted. “It wouldn’t be the same a’tall.” Dream Mr Frodo rose up in my head, all naked and beautiful and he held his arms out to me. “No…”

“And the untoward ecstasy ye felt with yer pleasurin’?” she crooned.

“It ain’t worth the pain of losing his regard,” I whispered. “Please… stop…”

“Good, good.” Her voice was brisk now, and matter-of-fact. “Only ye can make it stop, ye know, but I got something here that may help a bit.” Her hand moved o’er the tabletop and left a small green stone behind it. “There be full moon a day hence – on that night, four hours after sun-descending by the water-clock, take this elfstone in yer right hand and run a close circle round the home of yer beloved, going five times deosil till ye fetch up where ye started. That very night, mind, for the magic in yon stone won’t last but a moon.”

“Deosil?” I echoed, feeling mightily confused.

“Sunwise, Mr Gamgee,” she laughed. “’Tis fitting, I should think.”

“And the hair won’t grow no more?” _Will I stop wanting him? Will I love him still?_

The brazier flared up and sank down to embers, and the waggon got darker. “That’s for you to find out,” she replied, then told me to go and wouldn’t say another word.

Back out in the bright spring sunshine, amid the bustle and colour of the fair, the whole thing seemed fantastical and I looked at the common-seeming stone in my hand and shrugged ruefully. I had been taken in, well and good, but I couldn’t begrudge the silver I’d spent, for it had been an experience I wasn’t likely to forget in a hurry.

“Ah, there you are!” said a familiar voice behind me, and I stuffed the stone into my pocket and turned. Mr Frodo’s cheeks were rosy from the sun, and he had a pretty lass hangin’ on to his arm. “Meet Miss Cleolinda Bumblefoot, Sam,” he said, all cheerful-like and I mumbled, “Pleasedtomeetyou, Miss.”

My master grinned and took his arm back. “Thank you for helping me look for him, my dear.” And she curtseyed and smiled bold at him. “You’re right welcome, sir,” she returned, full o’ cheek. “And welcome to visit anytime too, if you like.”

Mr Frodo laughed and allowed that he’d enjoyed himself, and I tried to quash the resentment that clawed my chest, a red wave of jealousy that threatened to sweep me under and ruin my good sense. She could play the flirt with him, and touch him in full light of day, and though she was a lass from a travelling family, it was all right, because she was a lass, you see. But as for me, I was a lad, and his servant to boot, and it could never be.

So it was that the next night, I lurked in the shadow of the beech thicket behind Bag End, the stone clutched in my sweating hand and calling myself all of my Gaffer’s hard names. I was certain that it wouldn’t work, even as I traced the path I would run in my head, but I also knew I had to do it, even if the old crone had played me for a fool. If ever Mr Frodo found out what I dreamed of, what I lusted after, he’d have to let me go for sure, even if it did pain him to do it. And I would have to leave him then and nothing would ever be right again.

It was time – the moon was high in the sky, and it was bright enough to see by. And I wasn’t afeared that I’d be seen, ‘cause the lamps had gone out in the smial long since, my master was abed and I could move real quiet if need be. The first round was easy enough, and I found my stride after a bit, my feet barely whispering in the soft grass, then I took the curve of the Hill all blind and something hit me so hard, it knocked the breath right out of me, and I reckon I saw stars.

I lay still until the night stopped spinning, then I raised my head and tried a look around. I couldn’t see nothing at first, then something moved in my flowerbed, and I heard a soft groan.

“Mr Frodo?” I scrambled over to where he lay, my heart all but starting from my chest. “Mr Frodo!”

He blinked up at me, his face white in the moonlight. There was a smear of something dark on his chin, and I brushed at it with trembling fingers, but it just crumbled and fell away. “Sam?” he whispered. “Was that you?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Frodo! I…”

“Hush, now. No harm done, I believe,” he touched his jaw and winced some. “Though running into you was like meeting a tree. What are you doing here at this hour?”

I looked up quick at the moon, sailing serenely on her way, and I knew that the time for hiding away was done. “Let’s get you in t’ hole first, sir. This cold ground ain’t doing you no good.”

The back door was nearest, so we helped each other into the kitchen and I left him leaning by the table whilst I stoked the fire and lit the lamps.

“Ugh. I’m all over muck,” he complained, and I took a quick look. Clods of soil rattled on the tabletop as he pulled his shirttail out of his breeches and when his fingers went to his buttons, I turned my eyes away. The stone was still clutched tight in my hand and I laid it down absent-like. I didn’t know what to say – words whirled in my head, and I couldn’t make sense o’ them at all. Where could I start? How would it end?

“Sam.” I turned slowly and gave myself up to truth. But he wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the stone sitting on the polished wood, and he had the strangest smile on his face.

“You were going the wrong way, lad.”

I quit breathing. My blood throbbed in my ears and I heard my voice, as if from far away. “No I wasn’t. Sunwise, she said.”

“Widdershins, she told me.” His eyes were brilliant in the lamplight. “And you should have been back at Number Three.”

“No. The home of my beloved, she said. I was where I was supposed to be.”

“Your beloved, Sam?” He pushed himself away from the table, and came to me. My hand went up of itself, the fuzz on my palm gleaming golden in the light, and he took it, and I could see a dark haze on his pale skin before he raised it to his lips and kissed it softly.

“Aye,” I whispered. My legs shook and my body had taken fire from his touch, and I struggled for a sense of reality. “Where’s your stone, Mr Frodo?”

“Somewhere in the garden, I suppose. _Sam_. Please…”

Then his mouth was on mine, all wet and wanting, just like in my dreams. The wall was cool on my back, and my front all warm from the press of his body, and I could feel his arousal through my breeks, a brand of greater heat on my thigh. I buried my hands in his hair and delved deep into his sweetness with my tongue and ground my hardness against him and then the pleasure was taking me, and I couldn’t stop it. I felt his lips go soft and he whispered my name; then he was shuddering and moaning and when my legs gave way and I slid down to the floor, he went with me.

I can’t recall how we made it to the bedroom. I tasted every inch of his creamy skin, and he savoured mine. I know that we spilled thrice more that night. I didn’t think it was possible. At the last, I was buried deep in the hot heart of him, and when I pressed my hand low on his belly I could feel myself moving in him, loving him, and it was so wonderful.

You’re blushing now, but that’s how it was, and I may be pushing ninety, but there ain't nothing wrong with my memory. Though I may have gotten carried away a mite, there. Isn’t to be wondered at, is it?

Anyways, the next morning it all seemed like a fevered dream, if not for the aches that wracked me and the lovely weight of him warm by my side. He glowed in the sunlight that fell athwart the bed - it lit the dark bruise rising along his jaw and I touched it gently. Tiny curls fell away from my hand, drifting across his skin and I looked at my hairless palm with something like regret.

_Hobbits aren’t meant to live on the heights_, I thought. _We’re rooted in the earth and part of it, even the best of us. And air’s a poor foundation for anything, anyway._

Mr Frodo stirred and I looked up, falling into his eyes and loving him, all over again. A spasm of pain crossed his face as he tried to move, and I gathered him into my arms and held him close to me.

“Does it hurt bad, my dear?” I asked.

He laughed a bit at that. “I ache all over, and I fear you’ve plowed me well. But I’m yours to till, and you’re mine to sow (in a manner of speaking, that is) and that’s how it will always be. No master and servant between us now, my Sam, for that’s why I could never speak of my love. Promise me.”

I promised faithfully, and I don’t recall if we got out of bed all that day.

~~~~~

Well, now. That was a long tale, wasn’t it? Much longer than I thought to tell. And I’ve forgotten to say why I thought you should know, haven’t I?

There was a herbwoman of the big folk - back in Minas Tirith, one of those who tended us hobbits. She had a tongue on her like a babbling brook, but a good heart withal. Ioreth was her name, and she came to our room one day and told us as how she knew we were soul-bound, Mr Frodo and me. Seems she was a wisewoman too, you see. She also told us just how rare our love was, and how that Bumblefoot see-er had been there special for us that day and other things besides. And it seemed that it was our bounden duty to pass the lore on, so that those who were like us wouldn’t listen to false cautions and go astray.

So that’s why I’m telling you – ‘cause you know all the rest of our story and you’re a wise one too, in your own way. I’m right grateful that you’ve come to say goodbye, but I’ve got to get on w’ my packing now, if you will pardon me. I’ve got a long way to go, and them elves like to sail on the evenin’ tide, if I remember right.

He’ll be waiting for me.


End file.
